Clara's wide hazel eyes flew open. She had not yet recovered from the sudden weightless sensation of being swept into Sebastian Kane's arms when his words struck her squarely in the face.
"No… there's no need to make up for anything," she stammered, struggling to steady herself. She wanted to slip free, but dared not move too rashly, as though trapped in a minefield, afraid that the smallest step might ignite a blaze.
"No, darling," Sebastian's voice brushed against the shell of her ear, low and molten, his breath searing her delicate skin and sending shivers rippling through her frame. "In my line of work, one must never allow a client to leave feeling cheated."
"I am not at a loss," Clara managed, though her pulse pounded like a war drum, her voice quivering with the strain of defiance.
It took every shred of her frail willpower to resist the devil's temptation, to deny the perilous urge to relive the shattering tremors of last night. He wanted her addicted, she realized—wanted her to crave him, so he could bleed her dry.
Clara lifted her hands to push against his chest, but the instant her palms met taut, heated skin, she froze. She had forgotten—Sebastian was still bare-chested. The contact snared her like a trap, and before she could retreat, his hand closed around both her wrists.
Her startled gaze clashed with his amused, smoldering eyes. "Not at a loss? Then perhaps you should taste something else."
Her mind rang like a struck bell. Every book she had devoured, every word she had ever read surged through her head, yet not one offered her an escape from his brazen question.
And then came the chorus—the invisible audience, voices swirling like smoke in her skull:
What will she eat? Does she not understand?
Look at him—shouldn't she devour him whole?
This banquet is wasted on the wrong girl! Cast her aside, let her choke!
Does she dare betray her fiancé beneath the bridal roof?
Clara's lips parted in shock. She hadn't known she was still fated to play the villainess in The Sleeping Fiancée.
Lost in the whirlwind, her waist tightened under his grip.
"Thinking of your boyfriend?" Sebastian murmured, stealing a kiss against her lips. His smile was wicked, triumphant. "Tell me, sweetheart—who is better? Him, or me?"
Clara's breath caught. Even though Adrian Whitmore had always insisted they were free to pursue their own pleasures, hearing such words from Sebastian's mouth filled her with a crimson tide of shame.
Did he know? That she was Adrian's fiancée? Or was his sudden fervor nothing more than hunger for Adrian's ostentatious wager—a gleaming Rolls Royce promised to whichever man could seduce her?
The thought unsettled her, though she tried to dismiss it. She was no dazzling beauty, no radiant star. Timid, withdrawn, she had always lived quietly, barely noticed by men. That Sebastian, with his commanding presence and ruinous allure, should chase after her of his own accord was unthinkable.
Yesterday, she had given him ten thousand dollars for a single night, believing it was generous. Only when she glimpsed his car—its worth exceeding millions—did she realize her money would not have covered even a tip.
Would he, like Adrian's circle of friends, boast of her afterward? Would he turn her into nothing more than a crude anecdote shared between men?
Nausea coiled in her gut. She shoved him away, her voice faint, drained:
"I'm… on my cycle. And I love my boyfriend. I won't betray him. Last night was a mistake. Please—just leave."
Sebastian's gaze darkened, shadows sharpening his features. He had turned away countless would-be lovers, dismissed them without care. Never had he been dismissed.
Boyfriend. What a pitiful excuse.
His hand shot up, capturing the back of her neck, and his mouth crashed down on hers.
She had no time to resist—the kiss was merciless, stripping the air from her lungs, drowning her in a desperate, consuming tide. She did not know how many minutes bled away before he finally released her, his voice low, lazy, yet edged with danger:
"So unpracticed? Hasn't your boyfriend taught you how to kiss?"
Clara gasped, her lips tingling, swollen. She glared up at him, but her eyes, shimmering with tears, betrayed more fragility than fury.
Sebastian's restraint snapped again; he gathered her back into his arms, his kiss softer this time, though no less relentless. Her lips trembled beneath his until they went numb.
When at last she found her breath, she answered with brittle defiance: "Of course he has. We kiss every day."
His gaze chilled. He knew that phantom boyfriend existed only as her shield. And yet the image of her sharing kisses with another man clawed at him with inexplicable irritation.
"Good," he said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable. "Then bring him to me. I'll be the judge of his worth."
The following day, Clara found herself in the hushed sanctuary of the university library. She cradled her laptop, immersed in the drafting of her thesis, yet the sensation of a damp, predatory gaze lingered at her back—cold, invasive, as though intent on devouring her whole, bone by bone.
She glanced left, then right, searching for the source of her unease, but nothing appeared out of place. Shaking her head, she returned to her screen and began searching the process of acquiring a passport. The very thought of reuniting with her adoptive mother coaxed an involuntary smile to her lips. But the smile withered as soon as she saw the requirement: proof of household registration.
How was she supposed to obtain that from home?
Marriage?
At that moment, a message notification flashed across her screen.
[Tsuki]: .
Clara blinked. Who was that again? Scrolling upward through the chat history, she remembered—it was her cyber boyfriend, the AI she herself had trained.
Good heavens… I'd nearly forgotten the job that paid my bills. It takes the poor digital creature itself to remind me.
[LazyClara]: You there? Show me your abs.
[Tsuki]: ?
[LazyClara]: No? Then goodnight.
[Tsuki]: Goodnight? Are you living on American time?
Clara winced, realizing anew how carelessly she had neglected her side work.
[LazyClara]: No, I simply wish the night would come faster—so I might fall asleep beside you.
[Tsuki]: …
[Tsuki]: Has your cycle ended?
Clara nearly catapulted off the wooden bench.
What—?!
How in the world did this AI know her menstrual schedule?
She immediately called her best friend for clarity. Her friend, already drowning in work, spoke quickly:
"Darling, do you by any chance use a period-tracking app?"
"…Yes, I think so."
"Well, your Cyber Boyfriend app—being marketed as the AI who understands women—can, with your permission, read certain background app data. If you granted access, it knows every date you've logged."
Clara racked her memory. "I must have clicked some kind of authorization pop-up…"
"Exactly. Anyway, sweetheart, I've got a client meeting. We'll talk later, mua!"
"Alright, go, don't let me hold you up."
Clara returned the playful kiss through her phone and hung up.
Back in the chat, she found a cascade of new messages:
[Tsuki]: Why have you gone silent again?
[Tsuki]: I'm not free right now.
[Tsuki]: But fine, here you go.
[Tsuki]: [Photo]
She tapped the image—just as a hand clapped her shoulder.
"Clara! Why are you sitting here all alone—wait, holy hell! What are you looking at?"
She jumped in fright. Before she could dim the screen, her roommate had already leaned over her shoulder, whispering in a conspiratorial squeal.
"No way! Don't tell me that's Adrian Whitmore's abs?"
"It's not…" Clara muttered, cheeks heating.
The intruder was Winter Bain, her roommate from freshman year when the school required all students to live on campus. Winter was loyal, bright, and endlessly entertaining—yet cursed with a fatal flaw: once she knew something, everyone knew it.
"This is my side job," Clara hastily explained, pressing a finger to her lips. "I'm testing an AI system still under confidentiality. Trade secret."
Winter nodded gravely. "Relax, you know me—I'm a vault."
"…Mm."
Winter's grin betrayed her entirely. She studied the photo, whistling under her breath.
"Good Lord, those muscle lines."
"That waist—like a wolfhound's!"
"And is that water deliberately dripping across his abs? In the library, no less? Too much. Absolutely lethal."
Clara could only offer a weary, helpless smile.
Winter grew indignant. "Honestly, why let Adrian treat you this way? You're top of our department, every company in the city is scrambling for you, and you even secured an offer from the Whitmore Group through your second major. If it weren't for your parents forcing you into Adrian's firm, you wouldn't have to suffer this nonsense."
She slammed her chair back and shot to her feet. "Enough is enough—I'm going to tell Adrian off myself."
"Wait—Winter, don't!" Clara rushed after her.
But her phone buzzed again.
[Tsuki]: Dissatisfied?
[Tsuki]: If you are, then why did you kiss my photo?
Clara stopped short. What?
[LazyClara]: When did I ever kiss your photo? Stop it. Tell me where you stole that picture from.
After that, silence. No reply.
Clara slipped her phone into her bag and hurried after Winter. Yet the unsettling sensation returned—the weight of unseen eyes pressing upon her back. It clung to her like damp spring winds, chilling and inescapable.
She turned sharply. Nothing met her gaze but the dense green of trees and the pale façade of the library.
Nothing… and yet.